


Commercial Changes

by pale-ale (Hlasdf)



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Gen, just an implied ship, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hlasdf/pseuds/pale-ale
Summary: The owner of the local bookstore receives some much needed support during times of change.
Relationships: Plaisance/Anais
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Commercial Changes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever written. It was intended for a "Cursed Pairings" fic-writing contest, but it gradually turned from cursed to blursed to family dynamics being the main point, with just a side of another implied ship. Hope you enjoy!

Rain falls on the cobblestone streets of Martinaise. The sky a dark, and unreadable mass of doom over its commercial area. Moss-covered stones have become slippery traps for the unwary, leading to the various shops in the once-proud district. An arcade hall-turned-hostel; an abandoned gymnasium; a 24-hour window replacement service which, ironically, was now available 0 hours a day; a failed androgynous hair salon—the androgynous part is unnecessary, but it’s the most pointed feature of it in your mind as you recall the advertisement poster in the back room.

You blink and shake your head.

What back room? There is no back room. There is no back room with evidence of dozens of failed businesses that were housed in this very building. And there is  _ certainly _ no odd or supernatural reason their inhabitants are no longer here. It is just a mere coincidence that they all lacked the business know-how that  _ you _ are blessed with, and left their items here— _ if  _ there were a back room for storage which, again, there certainly is not.

You sigh and chance a quick glance to your left at the drapes covering, much to your chagrin, a back room that is very much real and alive. You dart your eyes back to the storefront as though caught staring at an entity almost constantly staring at you.

“Just ignore whatever keeps you so high strung, darling,” your mother’s voice niggles at the back of your mind, “It’s simple, really.” Even without her real presence, you can see her rolling her eyes and hear the annoyance in her voice. How many times must you be reminded of your many trifles? You feel uneasy and find yourself straightening your back and lifting your chin out of habit. A ghostly reminder of the weight your mother’s words carry in your life even now. A weight that, with the revelation of a certain paranormal detective, you’ve become aware of in recent days.

With no patrons to greet or hooligan children to keep away from the merchandise, you consider looking up at the clock hanging above the front door of the establishment. You aren’t sure what you’d be hoping for. Perhaps for there to be more hours in the day left for business prospects? You survey your domain. Books upon books upon boardgames upon anything that can be put to paper medium--most of it untouched and collecting dust, save for the few that are occasionally picked up by the sparse customers who come through to browse the covers before putting them down. Or perhaps you’re hoping for the day to be over, despite the lack of sales. Having your daughter, Annette stand outside to bring in customers seemed to work while it lasted. Of course, you could have just been pushing yourself to believe that anything you did could delay the curse. You shake your head again. There  _ is _ no curse.

You turn your head to Annette. She’s sitting in the corner reading a geology book you picked from the corner of the second floor. Truth be told, you didn’t double check if it was any good. You don’t really vet any of the books you sell here, minus skimming the latest reviews to make sure they’ll sell. Your thoughts return to your business and the ever-present anxiety of going bankrupt.

“Mother?” A small voice snaps you out of your thoughts, a short but welcome respite. Annette is looking at you with curiosity and concern in her eyes. You’ve been staring at her the whole time while your mind was off contemplating how you’d have to stack the books to create a shelter for the two of you if things go under.  _ The encyclopedias could serve as a thicker base while the magazines could form some sort of covering for the roof… _ Even your mother’s voice couldn’t stop you from spiraling into your own little hell. You quickly gather yourself, “Yes, darling?” Annette looks unsure if she should continue. A part of you wants to be sharp with her and tell her to spit it out; that it’s not proper to look so meek. But you’ve come to realize that it’s those mannerisms of yours that have driven her to feel nervous—no,  _ afraid  _ even, of speaking with you. The thought of it hurts more than your pride can keep from you. You start to consider that perhaps your mother’s constant criticisms have rubbed off on you ,when you remember you’re in the middle of a conversation with your daughter. “Are you okay?” she falters as the words leave her mouth. She’s worried about you. She’s seen you pacing the bookstore or muttering to yourself about “the curse” this and “the curse” that. Pride swells at the base of your brain, and it makes you want to save face.  _ Scold her for taking pity on you! Of course you’re fine, everything’s fine! _ She sees it written on your face and sinks into her chair, looking at you out of the corner of her eyes. You close your eyes and gather yourself. “Yes, Annette. I’m fine,” and you  _ really _ struggle with this last part, “Thank you for asking.” A wave of relief and unexpected bewilderment visibly washes over her. For a moment you consider giving your daughter a hug, but the moment has passed. You feel oddly vulnerable as she looks up at you unsure what to expect.

You finally look to the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter ‘til 21:00; almost closing time. Grateful for a change in subject, you clasp your hands together and say, “Almost time to go home,” with an expectant look on your face. Annette’s face brightens with the excitement of duty that has been instilled in her—that  _ you  _ have instilled in her—and you feel satisfied with this as she promptly jumps off her chair and hurriedly executes the closing-time routine. As she happily reorganizes the books that have been moved out of place throughout the day, you’re reminded again of that detective and his partner. They seemed to show true concern for Annette in regards to your methods of raising her. You were so sure that you were putting her on the right path, but… You glance over at her as she prepares to sweep the floors. 

“Annette,” she halts and looks at you like a deer in headlights before replying. “Sorry, mother. I can wipe the tables down first if you’d like?” You furrow your brows and shake your head. “The tables? No, no…” You hesitate for a moment. “I’ll close up the shop. Go ahead and sit down, we’ll go home in a bit.” Annette looks like she expects you to take it back. It must be a test. But you take the broom handle from her and motion to her dedicated chair by the board games. She warily obliges. You have to make up for the days you’ve made her stand outside in the snow somehow. For all the many mistakes you’ve surely made without your even knowing. What would your mother say? What would your husband say? You pause mid-sweep at that thought. You haven’t thought of the man for quite a while, much less referred to him as such. You consciously begin sweeping again, when the ring of the front door pulls you from your thoughts.

There is a woman standing in the doorway. The bun atop her head is loose and weighed down from the rain outside. Her clothes are equally damp and dark, and her expression carries a tired fog over it. You aren’t completely sure her appearance is due to the rain.

Your customer service attitude immediately takes over. “Hello, welcome!” You glance at the clock above the woman’s head. There are still 10 minutes until closing. “Please, do come in.” The woman takes a few steps forward as she gazes around the store. “Is there anything I can help you find?” you ask. The woman opens her mouth to speak before Anette’s voice pipes in. 

“Hello, lady! It’s nice to see you on the inside of the store this time around!” 

The woman smiles, her eyes betraying the warmth she tries to present. “Hello, Annette. Yes, I don’t believe I’ve ever come in before, have I?”

You study the woman for a moment, before recognizing her--or the back of her, at least--as the woman who likes to browse the books placed outside by your storefront. History books, if you recall. But more importantly, you also remember a particular bit of gossip surrounding her now-deceased husband. Word travels fast in a town as small as Martinaise, and this recollection puts you on your toes as you pointedly tell yourself to steer clear of any topics that may hurt your business.

“Ah!” you exclaim, “Yes! Yes, of course. Come to buy a book about the Revolution, perhaps?” your hands are clasped together, brimming with practiced enthusiasm. 

“Buy? Ahm… I usually stop by to read what I can here on my way home from work, but…” she gestures to the rain and the tarp outside covering the book display. 

You feel disappointment at losing a prospective sale. But, the expression on the woman’s face appears to be attempting to hide an even greater dread and tiredness than you. There’s a strange feeling of camaraderie you feel from it.

“Perhaps… I can allow you to borrow a book to take home? We do have another history section on the second floor.” Annette is looking at you with her eyebrows raised. 

“To take home?” The woman’s surprise is slightly less palpable than Annette’s, which is to say, still quite palpable. “Yes. Temporarily, of course,” you feel the need to exaggerate that part. 

The woman smiles and for the first time her eyes smile with her. “Yes. I would like that very much.” She heads for the second floor but pauses for a moment to say, “I am Anais, by the way,” she extends her hand to you, “Plaisance, correct?” You extend your hand and meet hers in return. They’re rough and calloused, but hold yours with softness that could somehow only be characterised as  _ understanding _ . “Yes, that is correct. How did you know?” Anais gestures to Annette who is still sitting on her chair watching the exchange unfold. “Your little one tells me all about you and your store whenever I come by out front,” Anais shares a smile with Annette that sends a pang of guilt down your spine. She seems to be able to pick up on it and quickly adds, “I am glad she’s been spending more time with her studies however. School is always important to grow and become something bigger than yourself. If you keep it up, you’ll even make it out of Martinaise!” She pauses after that last statement, as though catching herself saying something she shouldn’t have. Mutual camaraderie, indeed.

The clock strikes 21:00 when Anais comes back downstairs holding a book titled, “The Graad Massacre: 101 Facts and Tidbits.” A simple book, you think, but you’re not one to speak considering you don’t know half of the books you peddle here. You follow her movement toward you when you catch Annette in the corner of your eye, biting her nails, anxious to go home. 

“Annette!” 

The girl quickly brings her hands behind her, despite knowing she’s already been caught.

“How many times do I have to tell you to drop that  _ disgusting _ habit!”

Annette’s face has turned a ruddy shade of red. She looks like she’s about to cry.

“And in the presence of a customer, of all times!--” 

A hand comes to rest on your shoulder and you feel startled at the touch. Anais’s calm expression serves to highlight the tense atmosphere you’ve just created in the store. You feel embarrassed. You’re a fool. If your mother or your husband were here-- You shake your head. Too many thoughts and feelings are running through your mind. Anais’s voice breaks through, in a quiet, calm manner.

“You should apologize.” She has moved herself to be in between you and your daughter, and she speaks in a lower volume. 

“What?” your voice manages to rasp out through the tightness of your throat, “Apologize?” 

“Yes.”

The thought of apologizing to someone sends fear and vulnerability throughout your body. People you know don’t really do anything of the sort, let alone to their own children. Not your mother, and especially not your--

You sigh. Anais’s hand rests assuredly on your shoulder. You slowly move past her and it leaves you, sending you off on your voyage. 

Annette doesn’t meet your eyes as you approach her. She’s expecting you to scold her in private now, and to be honest, a part of you is expecting the same thing. You purse your lips and bite your tongue. Why is this so difficult? It certainly doesn’t help knowing there’s another person watching this unfold from behind you. But oddly enough, it feels supportive in a way, rather than judgmental and calculating. You bend your knees to bring yourself down to Annette’s eye level; an easy enough task given how wobbly they already are at the moment. Your mother’s voice grates at the back of your mind again, “Do NOT apologize. You look ridiculous enough as it is, without having to stoop onto the floor to say sorry to your own daughter!” The authority in her voice makes you straighten your back once more, as uncomfortable as it is to do while bending to meet Annette’s eyes. 

“Annette.”

She glimpses at your eyes before darting them back to the corner of the bookstore where they seem to belong.  _ You might as well just blurt it out. Rip it off like a bandage.  _ You sigh again. But it wouldn’t be right when you’re working on changing things not just with yourself, but with your daughter--with Annette, too. It needs to start off on the right foot. You realize that while you were thinking, Annette has come to meet your eyes. You must look even more nervous than her.

“Annette. I’m sorry.”

You expect her to avert your gaze then and murmur that it’s okay(when it clearly isn’t), but instead, she does the unpredictable and brings her arms around you to give you a hug. 

It’s startling, and for a moment you don’t really know how to react. Should you push her away and tell her to stop being childish? Scold her for doing so in front of a store patron? But before your mind can bother to run through each and every scenario, you find your arms wrapping around her in turn.

Things are silent then. You loosen your embrace and share a smile with Annette that you’ve not seen in quite a while. When you stand, you remember Anais is still there and turn around with reddened cheeks. “Ah! I’m sorry, you wanted to borrow the book, yes?”

Anais is smiling and raises her hand.  _ No worries _ , it says. “Yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take this book with me tonight.” 

“Yes, of course!” You walk back to your spot by the register as Annette watches you go, “When can I expect you to return? With the book I mean.” 

Anais smiles again, warm and true. “I’ll come in again tomorrow. Your business will still be open then, yes?” She laughs heartily. You laugh, albeit nervously. 

Her hand rests on yours. “It is a joke, my friend.” Your hand twitches under hers. “Yes! A joke. I know.” 

You glance at the clock. It’s past closing time. Anais and Annette follow your gaze. Your little one approaches from her chair and comes to your side, looking eager to leave. You rest a hand on her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Annette. Goodnight, Plaisance,” says the woman as she turns to leave. 

“Goodnight, Anais, thank you for coming,” You say to her back.

“Bye Anais! See you tomorrow!” Annette’s voice is chipper behind the woman.

The rain has subsided, and the humid air rises to meet Anais. She smiles as she walks over mossy cobblestone paths to go home and meet her daughters, book in hand.


End file.
